by Mario Bolduc
Kill her, more likely, and right here in Montreal.
“Indrani no longer exists officially anymore, does she?”
“Where is my sister?”
It all happened so fast. Max grabbed the lamp at his feet and tilted it at Morency, who lost his balance and took just a fraction of a second too long in reacting, when suddenly Sandmill fired his revolver just as the door opened. Once, twice, then he fell to the floor. Max caught a brief glimpse of Mancini and his men, wearing bulletproof vests. Max was on the ground holding his belly with both hands, surrounded by an immense pool of blood that kept growing. Someone yelled to call an ambulance, and then everything went dark — a black hole, an endless pit he knew he’d never come back from. Oh well, that’s that, I’m on my way to join Philippe and David.
47
Waxed floors, a corridor-length mirror, almost an ice rink with small, bent-over ladies sliding silently by in pale blue gowns. Their hesitant gait suggested prematurely aged, cloistered nuns. The tranquility didn’t deter Juliette, though it did affect her somehow as she stormed out of the taxi, now becoming delicate herself. In this convent, slamming a door or raising one’s voice was the worst thing imaginable. They’d asked her to stay in the waiting room, but she rushed down the corridor without a moment’s hesitation, asking for directions as she went, and finally found herself in the chapel.
Two solid doors with a crucifix marked the entrance. She opened the right one, and received a whiff of incense full in the face. She noticed three elderly nuns seated randomly, none of them the person she was looking for. Maybe she should have cooled her heels in the waiting room after all.
“I was expecting you.”
She snapped around to see Deborah Cournoyer standing behind her, holding a rosary. She seemed so young surrounded by these elderly ladies. Juliette was about to explain her presence, but Cournoyer led her outside and into the corridor and mirrored tiles again. Words failed her.
“The rule of silence,” said Cournoyer. “Silence for the past and the present. We are all there. We all have our secrets.” She added, “I knew when Dennis died that sooner or later someone would come to question me, asking questions I never found answers to myself.”
Juliette had made the connection with the old passport photos in Patterson’s apartment, photos of a younger Pascale, but still strikingly similar.
In an earlier life, Deborah Cournoyer had been Pascale.
In the phone book, Juliette had found the Montreal address of the order that Sister Irène in Varanasi belonged to after Max told her the story of the cremation. Now she was here simply to understand. What was Patterson’s part in all this? Why not say anything to Max?
Her room was small but sunny. Pascale hadn’t kept much from her time in India, and not necessarily the most exotic things, either. That comb on the wash basin, though, Juliette had seen many like it in the bazaars there, those plastic sandals under the bed — Indians all wore them. Pascale turned to Juliette.
“In a city where death is a flourishing industry, nothing could be easier than faking one’s own. A few rupees for a blackened body unrecognizable to anyone. Throw it on the fire and scatter the ashes in the Ganges.”
“Why?”
“Because Max was close to finding me. He’d searched all through Europe, chased down every clue. I watched him from afar. Dennis let me know Max wasn’t letting it go. Naively, I thought he’d soon give up, but no, never. Quite the opposite, he was consumed by my silence and his failure. Max wanted me home at any cost, no matter what I thought. Eventually I realized he’d never give up, not till the bitter end.”
There was no way out but this faked death with the help of Sister Irène, a lie, just another con like so many she’d staged in the past with Max and Antoine. But in Varanasi, it wasn’t to fleece bankers and millionaires. It was to fool those close to her, her family and husband. Up on the ghats, she and Patterson hadn’t missed a thing, and Antoine had almost spotted them when he glanced up in their direction.
“Being present at one’s own funeral,” said Pascale, “was the most troubling experience I’ve ever had to face.”
“But why not simply tell Max? He revered his brother, yes, but he also loved you above all else. I’m sure he’d have pardoned your liaison with Philippe.”
Pascale, at a loss, raised her eyes to Juliette, gazing at her a long while.
“You don’t understand, Juliette, not at all.”
Her affair with Philippe was just Patterson’s ruse to stop Juliette from asking any more questions. The truth was something far more dramatic still, Pascale explained. Dennis, the diplomat, was about to quit Foreign Affairs to make his own way. Philippe often offered Pascale the comfort of his Chrysler on the road to the “zoo” in Northern Ontario. After three months in the bowels of the pen on the edge of the forest and among the deer, elk, and caribou, Max was far from the drama of everyday life. Blind to the plots going on outside the gates.
“I tried to confess it to him several times, but I never had the courage.”
“Confess what?”
Pascale paused.
At the time, Patterson was in the passport office, and Philippe and Béatrice sometimes invited him for a meal at their place. Pascale joined them once in a while. One night Patterson was telling Pascale about his work. Her questions became more and more pointed, with an insistence that took Philippe and Béatrice aback.Then, a few weeks later, Pascale told them she was pregnant.
Soon it would start to show. The child was Max’s, but she didn’t want to tell him. Why? Because she was tired of this life, of the lies, of the running. She no longer had the strength to keep looking over her shoulder, as Max was still doing, and there was no way she would impose this on their son. She wanted to save him that grief. She wanted a new life for him, something to be proud of. She decided to break with Max, her family, and the outlaw world.
Juliette could guess the rest, and she turned away, but Pascale had opened the floodgates, and there was no stopping her. This child was the solution. Philippe and Béatrice had been trying for years to conceive. They’d been to all the specialists and read all the journals on in vitro fertilization, when Pascale offered them a solution. I’ll give you this child to bring up and make into somebody. At first, Béatrice and Philippe had been reticent, but she’d finally convinced them, and Max would be none the wiser. Pascale would disappear, go to India, and start a new life. She had neither the courage nor the strength to explain it to Max. All that remained of her was little David, who deserved better than a life on the run.
Pascale’s revelation left Juliette stupefied: Pascale was not Philippe’s mistress, but the first excuse Patterson dredged up; Pascale was the biological mother of a child, kept secret from the runaway father, who couldn’t help influencing him nevertheless; Pascale’s sudden disappearance, sneaking out on tiptoe. Now Juliette understood a little better Philippe’s insistence that Max not pursue the search for Pascale. Philippe, who had kept it all secret, then asked Max to look out for David. Now she also understood Béatrice when, in Patterson’s office, she’d said it “should not be brought out into the light of day.” Shaken by Philippe’s death, Pascale had considered telling all, but Patterson had advised against it for David’s sake. She had a choice to make: Max’s happiness or David’s … David, who venerated Philippe unreservedly. The revelation would be a bombshell, and destroying what remained of the family was out of the question, so the biological mother had opted for silence.
Pascale burst into tears, not bothering to turn away, as though glad to show her grief. After a while, Juliette took her face in her hands.
“You’ve got tell him now. You cannot hide it any longer.”
48
In the Himalayan fortress of Kashmir lies a cave, and in that cave is a lingam of ice, a reproduction of the erect male sex organ, phallic symbol of the god Shiva. A natural phenomenon to which Hindus attr
ibute divine powers. They go there every summer in endless lines of pilgrims, by minibus or on foot from Chandanwari to Amarnath, four thousand metres high. At pilgrimage time, the village would resemble a medieval fair, with itinerant vendors, jesters, and profiteers of all sorts. After the recurrence of the conflict with Pakistan and the aggravation of the Hindu-Muslim conflict, this voyage, the yatra, required a military escort. Patrols were scatterd along the route to prevent excesses on either side, since the Hindu convoy had to pass through Muslim villages, and since the pilgrims and their families needed reassurance.
The Amarnath road was one that Sri Bhargava took each year, once accompanied by his two daughters, now alone or with a disciple. On his way back from the sacred grotto this time, having accomplished his darhsan, or viewing of the lingam, there was a surprise awaiting him: a detachment of Indian police with a warrant for his arrest. They apprehended the religious agitator and took him to Jammu. He was arraigned that day and accused of being the leader of the Durgas by the government pursuant to an investigation led jointly by the Canadian and Indian police, with Josh Walkins in the driver’s seat. At the same time, in Hamilton, his colleagues were arresting Susan Griffith after a search of the SCI offices that followed the close interrogation of Vandana Bhargava (her real name) and William Sandmill, now recovering from his injuries. Rodger Morency was on the return route to the pen under the resigned eye of his mother, Madeleine. All four were formally accused of the murders of Ahmed Zaheer, Dennis Patterson, and David O’Brien.
Max was unconscious and so knew nothing of the testimony given by Indrani and the ensuing tidal wave it had caused. She was already back in India by now, where a serious de-escalation seemed to be underway. At the Line of Control, Indian and Pakistani troops were shaking hands, and it appeared to be a radiant summer, not radioactive. In Delhi, Prime Minister Vajpayee agreed to meet President Pervez Musharraf, and the arrest of Bhargava and the dismantling of his terrorist group reinforced what Pakistan called the goodwill of the Vajpayee government. All across India, the CBI was scooping up Durga membership lists and their strategies against Muslims and the more moderate members of the BJP government. Vajpayee proclaimed far and wide his determination to root out terrorism from whatever source, Hinduist or Islamist. A pious wish? Perhaps. In the same breath, Vajpayee promised closer scrutiny of foreign investment projects, even from such “commendable” countries as Canada. Airy promises? Perhaps. At the Montreal conference, SCI executives, shaken by the arrest of their CEO, committed themseves to restarting the Rashidabad hydroelectric station. One thing was certain: young Indrani went home to a country much calmer and more serene than when she had left it. Not paradise, of course, but then who wants a paradise promised by extremists?
Max, on the other hand, was sure he’d gone to heaven. White, white everywhere. No walls, no ceiling, just one huge white, pure mass everywhere, one where he’d have to learn life all over again forever. An angel leaned over him. It was Pascale, older, but beautiful as always. He didn’t recall those lines around her eyes or at the edges of her mouth. Any second now, he expected to see Philippe, and then — why not — David, but these two probably still had a lot to tell one another. He’d be seeing them later. For now, it was plenty to feel Pascale’s fingers running through his hair.
“Doctor, he’s coming round.”
The voice. It was Luc Roberge. What the hell was he doing in heaven? They must have brought him up from the underworld specially to piss him off. No, that wasn’t it. They were both in hell together. Police and thieves. Handy-dandy. Then he opened his eyes, and Pascale said, “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. I’m sorry I hurt you.”
“Sorry?”
That was all he got to say before night fell on him again. Deepest night. The voices faded, and silence moved in once more. When he came to again, it really was dark, and he saw Juliette sitting at the bedside table, leafing through a magazine. That was what woke him. He watched her read a long while. Through the open door, he heard a car honk, so he wasn’t dead after all.
“I had a dream, a weird one. Pascale was there beside me.”
“That was no dream, Max. She’s alive.”
Max was stunned. He closed his eyes again, but Juliette repeated, “She’s alive.”
He wasn’t ready for this thing she’d just said.
Two days later, sitting on the edge of his bed, despite nurse’s orders, Max saw the door open ever so softly, and Pascale appeared and came toward him, just as he’d imagined so many times all these years. The same. Older, of course, but the same. He even recognized her perfume when she sat on the edge of his bed; her scent had crossed the years. She smiled the same sad smile he’d so loved the very first time. She repeated all she’d told Juliette about David and added, “I had no choice. It wasn’t against you, but for him.”
Max stopped her there. All he wanted was to touch her, hold her against him, not ask for a reckoning or an explanation. Just erase the lost time for a moment. He took her in his arms, and for too brief an instant, forgot all the sleepless nights and cries in the wilderness. Pascale was here again. Nothing else mattered.
“You know,” she said, “I had the good fortune to see David in Delhi. The high commissioner’s wife was setting up a an international adoption agency.”
“IndiaCare.”
“I went to meet her in her husband’s office. Then in the corridor with a pile of paper in his hands, there was ‘our’ son.”
She’d looked at him long and passionately, proud of what he’d become. He’d smiled at her without knowing who she was.
Max followed her gaze to the door, where Béatrice was discreetly standing, never daring to interrupt the lovers’ reunion. Now she moved closer and said, “I loved him as my own, Max, and so did Philippe, I promise you that.”
Max couldn’t hold back the tears, and so he cried rather than get carried away and clutch these two women to force them to give back all those lost years, his lost son, but he hadn’t the strength or the courage for it. Deep down, he knew Pascale had been right. She had done what had to be done. He couldn’t blame her. Béatrice and Philippe had kept their promise and made a fine and honest man of their son.
Today was the day he got out. There were voices outside in the corridor: Luc Roberge and the man in white, probably the doctor. It was time to respect the agreement with Mancini, and Roberge had come for his due. Juliette helped him on with his shirt under the watchful eye of a uniform, and no, it wasn’t the same one with a beef about his retirement.
“You might want a sweater. It’s cold up there. I bet they’ve still got snow.”
So it was back to Temagami with the antler troop. Max could see Roberge’s smirk out of the corner of his eye.
“It’s going to be a girl,” said Juliette. “The doctor told me this morning. David would be thrilled.”
Max was.
“You can see her any time you want … and shower her with presents if you like.”
Max softened for a moment. “No, keep her away from prison, same as David.”
There was a long silence.
Then she said, “Thank you so much for everything you’ve done. David would be proud of you.”
In the elevator, Roberge ordered Max to be cuffed, and he didn’t complain.
His life was entering a new phase again. Nothing that would have enraged him before bothered him now. He’d reached that level of serenity that Hindus and Buddhists often achieved, an inner peace that outsiders sometimes mistook for resignation. Max wasn’t resigned at all, sad, maybe, but at peace with himself. He felt as though he’d picked up where “his son” David left off, completing what he’d begun and transcended death, made a difference, like Philippe.
Roberge did things up grand. The police van was parked with its doors open in the spot reserved for ambulances. So this was the end of a long race won by the copper, an exit in style for “Public Enemy Number One
.” That’s when Max saw Pascale with Mimi, Antoine, and Béatrice. Pascale stepped forward and squeezed him in her arms just as he was climbing into the van.
“Take care, Max.”
He looked at her long and hard. “Adieu, Pascale.”
The doors slammed shut on him, and Roberge got in the front with the driver. A second cop faced Max in the back. Pascale and Béatrice, joined by Juliette, appeared in the window. Finding her, erasing all those years of absence, that was what he’d wanted most. That was his dream, just another phantasm. Pascale was going back to India with Juliette and David’s ashes. She’d promised to scatter them there in Kashmir. Max was off to the pen. This time, they were well and truly broken up. Death was all that remained.
Montreal slid past the grill-covered window, and for hours the heat had been unbearable. This was like India just before the monsoon. “David, my son” was all Max could hear in his head, over and over, as though he had to convince himself it was true, not just another bad joke. A son he’d lost twice. Suddenly they were shedding the city like a scab. Here was the country. Where were they headed? From behind the Plexiglas where he sat next to the driver, Roberge glanced over his shoulder, and Max did, too, looking at the guard to his left, but just a second too late. Standing over him, the guard struck him solidly in the face. Christ, another one whose life savings I swiped, thought Max. He tried to shield himself with his arms, but the cuffs prevented him. Then more continuous blows, steady, relentless and precise. Max tried to lift his arms, then roll himself up in a ball on the bench, but lost his balance. As he fell to the metal floor, Max realized they had stopped by the roadside. Okay, this is it, he thought. Here on the shoulder, this will be for all the cops I swindled. Then the slam of a door, and cries of alarm from Roberge, who was ordering the guard to stop. “What are you, nuts? Cut it out!” Then he fell in a heap beside Max, just a quivering mass doubled up in pain. What was happening here? The guard knelt by Roberge and handcuffed him from behind. Then he forced Max’s face up to look at it.